


Almost Missed Opportunity

by Engineer104



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Allusions to Criminal Activity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 07:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1420213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Engineer104/pseuds/Engineer104
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean forgets his toothbrush at Marco's apartment, so it becomes a flimsy excuse for making a move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Missed Opportunity

**Author's Note:**

> Hey it's my first thing on here.
> 
> Also, this was a section out of a bigger fic that I tried to write. It wasn't going the way I wanted it to, but I was happy enough with this portion to share it, so there are obviously going to be some leftover allusions to the rest. If you're confused about anything, let me know and I'll answer any questions.
> 
> Enjoy. =]

_It was really the same drill as usual that day; the only thing that Jean knew would be especially different was the game._

_Jean’s favorite thing about spring was soccer, and he was actually pretty good, good enough that maybe, by the time he was a senior, he could get a scholarship and be varsity captain. . ._

_Except there was someone on the team better than Jean._

_“Hey, Jean!”_

_Jean kept his eyes fixed on his lock as he turned the combination, ignoring the voice calling his name.  When he heard the telltale click, he pulled his locker open and started to pull out his duffel bag, ready to head to the field for practice; technically, school wasn’t over, but the team started practicing during seventh period._

_“Jean, I_ know _you heard me,” someone whined from just behind him._

_Jean sighed and turned his head to look at Eren, his rival in all things soccer and school.  “What is it, Eren?” he wondered irritably._

_"So what did you get on that biology test?” Eren asked, tilting his head a little to the side as if to display his curiosity._

_“None of your fucking business,” Jean muttered, surreptitiously slipping the graded test into his backpack._

_“Not too good, huh?” Eren said, eyes wide as if with sympathy, but Jean knew better._

_“Why are you patronizing me, Eren?” Jean asked.  “What’s the point?”_

_Eren shrugged.  “You make it pretty easy,” he admitted.  “Maybe if you weren’t so easily ticked off, or if you made an effort to be nice, people would actually like you.”_

_“Well, Eren, if I wanted advice from you, I would’ve asked for it,” Jean retorted, his face flushing with anger.  “So what did_ you _get on the test?”_

_The dark-haired boy averted his eyes, as if suddenly embarrassed.  “Um, an A-minus,” he admitted carefully, as if wary of Jean’s status as a ticking time bomb._

_Jean inhaled through his nose.  Just because Eren was better than him at biology and soccer didn’t mean he was a better person as well._

_“But Mikasa got a perfect score,” Eren continued, probably not noticing that Jean was actually making an effort to control his temper, “so she’s the only one who doesn’t need to improve.”_

_The mention of the object of Jean’s affections only served to irritate him more.  It didn’t help that she never talked to him, that Eren always mentioned her in an offhand way that practically implied that he knew exactly how Jean felt, and wanted to make him feel guilty about his crush as a result._

_“If you want, you can study with us for the next test,” Eren offered.  He seemed to realize that Mount Kirstein was on the brink of eruption, for his tone was conciliatory.  However, it was too little too late._

_Jean slammed his locker shut and spun around to face Eren.  “Eren, just fuck off before I punch you, okay?” he said.  “I don’t need your help, or Mikasa’s!”_

_Eren rolled his eyes and sneered.  “Fine,” he said, and turned on his heel and left, the soccer cleats he held by the laces swinging with his motion._

_Jean stared at his back, fuming, his thoughts a violent swirl.  He was so focused on his rage that he didn’t hear the tentative “um, excuse me” from beside him._

_But he flinched when he felt a soft tap on his shoulder._

_“Who—“ he demanded, turning around quickly and angrily, just in time to see someone he didn’t recognize standing next to him._

_It was a boy a little taller than him, with a wide, rather chubby, freckled face.  He smiled at Jean cautiously, and Jean felt shame wash over him – as well as a blush._

_“Uh, sorry,” Jean said, trying to soften the scowl that was undoubtedly on his face.  “Do you need something?”_

_"Yeah,” the other kid said, making eye contact with Jean.  “I’m looking for my next class; I can’t find it.”_

_“Oh, are you new here?” Jean inquired politely (since when did he even_ do _polite?).  He couldn’t help but admire this kid’s boldness though; he could’ve chosen anyone in this crowded hallway, and yet he’d chosen Jean, right after he and Eren argued very publicly._

_The boy nodded.  “I moved here a week ago,” he explained with a slight grin, “and this is my first day at school.”_

_“Oh, well, uh, where do you need to go?” Jean asked.  He definitely wasn’t used to being asked for help; plenty of his classmates considered him smart (although he was nowhere near Mikasa’s level), but they typically regarded him with caution.  He was definitely a douchebag, and even he never let himself forget it._

_The other kid showed him a piece of white paper with his class schedule on it.  Jean quickly found the slot for seventh period and smiled a little._

_“Oh, you’re in Ms. Nanaba’s geometry?” he said.  “She’s a pretty easy teacher; I have her during third period.”_

_“Oh, really?” the freckled boy said, looking a little relieved.  “Good, because I’m awful at math.”_

_“Well, you’re in good hands,” Jean encouraged him with a smile.  “Nanaba makes even proofs easier.”_

_“So where’s her classroom?” he prompted._

_“Oh!” Jean said, embarrassed by his inattention.  “Uh, it’s in the Blue Wing; room 13.”_

_“Okay, thanks!” the other said cheerfully.  “I should get going.”  He took a step away, then turned back and held out his hand.  “I’m Marco, by the way.”_

_Jean took his offered hand and shook it.  “Jean,” he said._

_They let go simultaneously, and the new boy – Marco – turned to go to class, waving goodbye, but then Jean called back, “Hey, Marco, do you want to eat lunch with me tomorrow?”_

_Marco turned his head to look over his shoulder, a smile brightening his entire face.  “Yeah, that sounds great, Jean.”  And he continued on his way._

_And Jean couldn’t help but think that_ maybe _he’d made a friend that wouldn’t simply see him as a smart, volcanic douchebag._

* * *

When Jean woke up in his own apartment that morning, he fell out of bed in shock.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself, sitting up and rubbing his shoulder where it had made contact with the hard floor.  He ran the fingers on his other hand through his hair, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart.

It was remarkably like waking up after drinking enough to blackout, except without the hangover.  In the place of that physical unpleasantness, though, was something much stranger.

He felt a weird, yawning gap somewhere in his abdomen, or maybe in his arms, or his brain, or, well, he didn’t even know.  It’s just that a piece of him was missing, and he could only guess why.

Jean stood up, too quickly so that his head spun and he had to sit on his bed again for a moment.  “What the hell is wrong with me?” he said, putting his face in his hands and clutching at his too-long bangs.  He took a deep, rather shaky breath and removed his hands, standing, this time steady.

He walked to the bathroom slowly, determined to get out of his funk with a nice, warm shower and, especially since he hadn’t the night before, a thorough tooth-scrubbing.

Unfortunately, as he saw once he stood in the bathroom, there was no toothbrush.

Jean sighed, supposing he could chew gum and then head to Target and buy a new toothbrush or something, when he remembered that he left his old one at Marco’s apartment.

“I liked that toothbrush,” Jean complained to his reflection.  “I could even reach my wisdom teeth with it.”

Jean had only returned to his apartment the night before, with a decent enough amount of money, thanks to Erwin and his criminal activity (he felt the familiar twinge of guilt at that thought), and the words he would use to persuade Petra to lease the place to him again.  She had actually assented (it was surprising, really), especially when he showed he was willing to pay two months’ rent, in cash, ahead of time.

Naturally, she’d been suspicious.

_“Where did you get this money from, Jean?” Petra wondered, frowning at the cash._

_"I, uh, got a new job,” Jean said, hoping to God that the guilt wasn’t showing on his face.  Technically, he was telling the truth, but still. . ._

_“All right,” Petra said slowly, “I’ll give you another chance.”_

_“Thanks, Petra,” Jean said, beaming (and he_ never _beamed)._

_Petra smiled, although she still looked uneasy as she said, “You’re welcome.”_

So now Jean was back in his apartment, missing a toothbrush, and maybe Marco too, even though he’d only seen him yesterday.

Jean, still standing indecisively before the mirror, considered the last few weeks, when he’d been living with Marco.  It was remarkably nice, sharing a space with another person; in fact, it was more than nice, it was comfortable and _natural_.  So why had he been so excited to return to his own place?  Why did he currently wish to be anywhere else, especially if it was with Marco?

“Shit,” he said, the realization properly taking hold.

The funny thing was that Jean had always been the sort of guy to look at guys as well as at girls, and he never actually thought twice about it (but he’d rather die than tell his puritanical parents).  But then again, he never once sought out an actual relationship with a man that he considered attractive.

And now the particular man that Jean thought about was his best friend from high school, someone with whom he’d only recently rekindled that bond.  So what if they dated and broke up?  What would happen to their friendship then?

“Huh, why am I being so thoughtful about _this_?” Jean asked himself.  He glared at his reflection, as if it could tell him something, and it glared back, the lines around his eyes deeper than he’d ever really noticed them before, his shoulders peculiarly bony.

He’d thought that the work he and his friends were doing with Erwin would help him gain some stability as well as weight, but apparently the stress was still too much.

So he decided, rinsed his mouth with mouthwash (a temporary fix), and jumped in the shower.

* * *

 Marco flipped through the channels listlessly, not really settling on anything until he found a rerun of _Family Feud._   When he was a kid, he used to love watching it, trying to match his intelligence to the survey; then, as he grew older, he realized that it took less intelligence and more knowledge on popular opinion, hence the “survey”.

Marco stared at the television, uncomprehending.  He remembered, just a few nights ago, playing a mundane card game with Jean. . .

_“Do you have a six?” Jean asked._

_“Go fish,” Marco replied._

_“Shit,” Jean mumbled as he took a card from the pile.  He slid his cards between his hands, counting them.  “What the hell, Marco?  How do I have thirteen and you only have three?”  He stared at his cards for a little longer.  “I have every single possible fucking card!”_

_Marco couldn’t help the smirk that crossed his face.  “You should count the adjectives in that sentence,” Marco suggested coyly.  “And you’re also making this easier for me.”_

_“Oh, yeah?” Jean said, rolling his eyes.  “I have_ thirteen _cards!  There are_ thirteen _possibilities if you don’t count the jokers!  For you, it’s like we’re playing B.S. with only two people:  pointless and not fun!”_

_“I’m having fun,” Marco said with a shrug._

_Jean snorted.  “So what do you want?”_

_“An eight?”_

_“Shit,” Jean said again, passing a card over to Marco._

_“Ha,” Marco exhaled, taking his own eight and putting the pair in his pile.  “Your turn,” he said, nudging Jean’s foot with his toe._

_Jean nudged back, but said, “Do you have a fucking jack?”_

_“Nah,” said Marco, “but I have a jack.”_

_“Hell yeah!” Jean said eagerly, holding out his hand for the card._

_Marco laughed at his enthusiasm.  “You’re like a little kid,” he said as he passed his jack over, “except you swear a lot more.”_

_Jean snickered.  “No way,” he said.  “I swear, my nephew’s first word was ‘shit’.”_

_“He probably heard you say it too much,” Marco said, rolling his eyes._

_“No, my sister swears as much as me,” Jean admitted, shrugging and smiling.  “Actually, she probably swears more.”_

_“Someone swears more than Jean Kirstein?” Marco wondered sarcastically.  “I’m shocked.”_

_“No, seriously,” Jean said.  “She’s the one that taught me how.  When I was five, I actually said ‘fuck’ to my grandparents; my mom didn’t let me have dessert for a whole fucking month, even on my birthday!”_

_“That’s such a terrible punishment, Jean,” Marco lamented ironically._

_“God, you’re sassy all of a sudden,” Jean observed with a raised eyebrow.  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d guess that you’re flirting with me.”_

Is it really that obvious?  _Marco bit his lip; while he hadn’t exactly been going for “flirting”, he was definitely trying for “teasing-in-a-showing-interest-kind-of-way”._

_It really hadn’t been easy on him with Jean staying over; Jean wasn’t an easy housemate, for one thing.  Sure, he cleaned up after himself (mostly), but he was often sullen and scowling like a moody teenager, bored out of his mind when there was nothing to do for Erwin (it was that boredom that led Marco to suggest Go Fish)._

_But what made it hardest was that Marco’s old crush on Jean had long since returned with a vengeance, so that when he was alone there were few thoughts he had that didn’t somehow lead back to Jean.  And oftentimes, Marco had to consciously stop himself from reaching out to touch Jean, on the shoulder, on the hand, on the ass (_ that _was an embarrassing incident). . ._

_It definitely didn’t help that Marco often felt Jean’s gaze on him; originally, he almost managed to convince himself that maybe the feeling was mutual, but Marco never turned around to actually see Jean looking at him.  So he told himself that it was just wishful thinking._

_So Marco laughed off Jean’s comment and said in an attempt at being offhanded, “Hey, maybe I am.”_

_Jean frowned, looking deep in thought, but he only said, “Yeah, maybe.”_

Marco, unable to tolerate sitting any longer, turned off the TV and set the remote on the coffee table.  He stood up and walked into the kitchen; he felt oddly nervous and needed a glass of water.  As he went about absentmindedly filling a cup, he heard a loud, impatient knock from the door.

Marco jumped, startled by the sudden sound, and ended up with water all over his sleeve.  He quickly turned off the faucet and set the glass down beside the sink, drying his wet hand (his sleeve would have to wait).  As he made his way to the door, another knock, this one more insistent, sounded.

“I’m coming!” Marco called, looking through the peephole.

To his surprise, or not considering the style of knocking, Jean stood on the other side.

Marco’s heart jumped into his throat, and his out-of-place nerves from a few minutes ago doubled.  Jean had been here just yesterday; what could he want again so soon?

“Are you going to open the fucking door or do I have to fucking break it down?” Jean yelled from outside.

Marco laughed despite his anxiety; he knew quite well that Jean very rarely saw through with the violence he threatened.  So he opened the door, composing a smile rather than a nervous grimace onto his face as it swung back.

“Hi, Jean,” Marco greeted, looking at his friend’s rather disheveled appearance.

Jean’s hair was slightly damp, as if he showered not long ago, and his white button-down shirt was wrinkled and half-tucked into his slacks.  In fact, it looked as if he’d been interrupted while getting dressed for a date.

He was also panting a little, as if he’d run up the stairs rather than take the elevator, and so Marco, ignoring the fact that he looked rather sexy, commented, “Why didn’t you just take the elevator?”

“I was in a hurry,” Jean said, catching his breath.  He looked from Marco to past his shoulder, to the interior of the apartment.  “What, you’re not going to invite me into a place I moved out of _yesterday_?”

Marco laughed.  “Not until you tell me why you’re, well. . .”  He waved his arm, hoping to convey what he meant without actually explaining it.

Jean looked down at himself and laughed.  Was it Marco’s imagination or did he sound nervous as well?  “It’s a funny story, and I’ll tell you all about it.”  Then he looked down at Marco’s right arm.  “Why is your sleeve soaked?”

“I asked you first,” Marco responded, eyebrow raised.

“Well, I asked you second,” Jean retorted, rolling his eyes.  However, that gesture wasn’t very effective considering the wide grin he wore.

Marco’s eyes widened.  “Are you okay, Jean?” he wondered, concerned.  “You seem a little, well. . .”

“Crazy?” Jean suggested, his grin not wavering.  He took a step forward.

“Yeah,” Marco said, swallowing, his palms sweating as he realized that there wasn’t much space between them.

“I’m sound of mind,” Jean said, cocking an eyebrow, “but, well, I, uh. . .”  He trailed off, and before Marco could prompt him into saying anything again, he surged forward and pressed his lips to Marco’s.

Marco didn’t flinch; in fact, he barely reacted, except to return the kiss barely a second later.

Their first kiss didn’t last long; Jean broke it off after a few more seconds and took a step away.  “Uh, sorry,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking at the floor in obvious embarrassment.  “I had to do that before I lost my nerve.”  Then, he glanced up at Marco.  “So are you going to let me in now, or do I need to kiss you again?”

Marco smiled at him and said coyly, “You’ll probably have to kiss me again.”

Jean rolled his eyes, the grin returning to his face.  “Sorry, Marco, but that’ll have to wait.”

“Yeah, I guess we should talk,” Marco admitted, standing aside so that Jean could come in.  As he closed the door, he felt fingers brush against his waist, and turned to see Jean scrutinizing him.

“So why’s your arm wet, anyway?” he asked, tone suspicious.

“It’s just water, Jean,” Marco said.  “I was getting a cup of it when you knocked on my door and scared the shit out of me.”

“Hehe, Marco said ‘shit’.”

“Mature, Jean,” Marco noted as he pointed Jean towards the couch where they had sat together just a few days ago, playing Go Fish.

Jean sat down, looking a little uncomfortable and nervous despite the big smile still on his face.  Marco sat beside him, keeping a slight distance between them.  He cautiously placed his hand in the space though, and was pleased when Jean grabbed it with both of his.

“Um, Marco, look. . .”  He sighed, then said, “Shit, I thought it would be easier after I kissed you.”

“Were you going to say something along the lines of ‘I love you’?” Marco wondered.

Jean gaped at him.  “Yeah,” he admitted, then asked in an endearingly irritable way, “Why are you better at the words thing than me?”

“The words thing?” Marco said, smiling slightly at Jean’s lack of eloquence.  “You mean talking?”

“No,” Jean said.  “I’m fine with _talking_ ; I mean, I’m always so fucking _honest_ , but when it comes to myself, I can’t.”

“Okay, so say it now and practice being honest with yourself while you’re being honest with me.”

“Say what?”

“You know.”

Jean inhaled and looked directly at Marco.  He opened and closed his mouth a few times and then finally said, so quietly he had to lean forward to hear, “Marco, I love you.”

Marco felt his mouth dry up and his heart rate increase.  He had imagined those words coming from that person time and time again in the last month that he thought he might react reasonably calmly.

But instead, Marco took his hand out of Jean’s and, before Jean could react, flung his arms around the other man’s neck.  Jean returned his embrace, wrapping his arms around his back.

“So how was that?” Jean muttered into his ear.

“Perfect,” Marco replied.  “And I love you too.”

“Ha,” Jean said.

“You _are_ crazy.”

“Just crazy in love.”

“You’re lame,” Marco retorted.

Jean pulled away from him, pretending to look upset.  “And you’re fucking sassy,” he observed.  “Is this just because you’ve been around me too much lately?”

Marco laughed.  “Probably.”  He leaned forward, reaching out to touch Jean’s cheek.  “Did you shave before you came here?” he wondered.

Jean nodded, leaning a little into the touch.  “I had to make sure I looked presentable,” he said, smiling a little.

Marco felt the movement in his fingertips.  “I think you failed a little,” he pointed out.  “Your shirt’s wrinkled and your hair’s wet.”

Jean rolled his eyes, which looked unusual from up close.  “You don’t mind, though.”

“Not even a little.”  Marco touched his lips to Jean’s, initiating their second kiss.  Unfortunately though, he noticed something that he hadn’t the first time around, and pulled back.

“What’s wrong?” Jean asked, frowning.

“Um, did you brush your teeth this morning?” Marco asked.

“Well, that was another reason I came by. . .”

“What?”

“Well, I, uh, kind of forgot my toothbrush. . .”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and constructive criticism are welcome. =]


End file.
